Elegy
by Mrs.Dickens713
Summary: Mr. Carson's thoughts during the Dedication Ceremony.
1. Chapter 1

Elegy

He felt a curious mix of elation and dread upon concluding his remarks at the dedication ceremony. Though quite accustomed to being on display in his role as butler, it was quite surprisingly nerve-wracking to be on display as Charles Carson, who was only a man, after all. Dread because the man whose persona he had carefully constructed and ruthlessly tending was dying, after all these years. Dying an ignominious, embarrassing, protracted death. Elation, because he suspected that a similar awakening was occurring in close quarters and that perhaps his own awakening was the cause rather than the result.

He rather liked besting Mrs. Hughes at something. It so seldom happened. In truth he loved to see the self-satsified smirk on her face as she persuaded him to see things her way. He found he enjoyed even more the sensations that she elicited in him those few times he'd been able to get her off balance. He fought the beginnings of an embarrassing and inappropriate grin as he thought back to one of their most delightful conversations.

_"It puts us back in agreement, Mrs. Hughes. I'm not comfortable when you and I are not in agreement." _

_"You're very flattering. When you talk like that you make me want to check the looking glass to see that my hair's tidy."_

_"Get away with you."_

_"No, I mean it."_

He had very nearly said, "I love you," but his long years of discipline and restraint were still too deeply ingrained. And yet, he hadn't been able to keep himself from imagining a life outside service, a life with her outside service, a life as her husband. Lately, he'd been soothing himself to sleep with lovely musings of a small cottage, a whistling tea kettle and a shiny metal toaster. He could feel another grin threatening to slide across his face and shook himself mentally. This is not the time, man! A quick glance at the crowd returned his sense of decorum and gravity. He could see Mrs. Hughes, _Elsie_, wiping away a few tears as his Lordship concluded his remarks.

*CE*

"There you are, Mrs. Hughes," he panted. He was slightly out of breath, having had to fight his way through the milling crowd in order to reach her. He was desperate for a moment alone with her. Fortunately, the churchyard was very nearly deserted. He cleared his throat when he realized exactly where they were standing, and he removed his hat. "He was a good lad, our William."

Mrs. Hughes glanced at him sharply. Our William? Whatever could he mean by it? Then again, he'd been different lately; she felt her cheeks flush at the curious surge of hope she felt thrum through her veins. After their day in Brighton, she'd taken certain liberties. After all, he hadn't disagreed when she'd said they could afford to live a little. And lately, lately, it seemed he had taken her at his word. All this business with buying a cottage together. Whatever could he mean by it? She shook herself hard. This was neither the time nor the place to indulge in foolish fantasies regarding Mr. Carson and a cottage. Today was meant to be a day of remembrance, and she thought again of William and his gentle smile. She sniffed and reached for her handkerchief.

"Allow me, Mrs. Hughes," and Mr. Carson offered his handkerchief.

It was a moment suspended in time. Her face, tilted up to his, so close he could see the tears, beading and sparkling against her lashes. His breath caught, and rather than allow her to reach for his handkerchief, he grasped her chin gently and began to wipe her tears himself.

She was rooted, absolutely rooted to the spot. The feel of his strong fingers on her jaw, the smell of the pomade in his hair, the faint scent of his aftershave, it was all too much. And the kindness _and love_ she saw in his eyes made her want to turn her face and hide, but she would not. She would not flinch now, especially if he meant to declare himself.

"Will you?" he asked softly.

"Yes."

He let out a long shuddering breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding. "You understand that I'm not talking of rental property now."

"I do."

"You should know that I've wanted this for a very long time."

"I know."

"You should know that I love you."

"I do."

He studied her face, so calm and lovely, her nerves betrayed only by her slightly shallow breathing and throbbing of the pulse in her neck. He wished he could bury his face in her neck. _Later_, and the thought only heightened his desire.

His hands were trembling; she could feel them through the thin sleeves of her coat. It was the only sign of his…what? Fear, anxiety, anticipation? She looked into his eyes, and realized, heart pounding, that he was going to kiss her. Nervously she licked her lips and her eyelids closed involuntarily.

He studied her face; this was a moment he wanted to remember for the rest of his life. In the brief span when their eyes met, they had both agreed that he would kiss her. His knees almost buckled when her small pink tongue wet her lips and she closed her eyes. Could she perhaps want him? It had been so long, so very long, since he'd been in any way intimate with a woman. Would he remember any of it? Was it wrong to be thinking of this now? Oughtn't he…and then she leaned into him.

He kissed her, clumsily, across her cheeks, her jaw. He tasted the salt of her tears and thought perhaps his own face was wet. His nose bumped into hers; she leaned back, readjusted herself, then she tilted her head in a way that made it impossible for him to resist the urge to kiss her. He placed his lips against hers gently, lightly, but when she pressed herself closer, he forgot about duty, propriety, obligation. There was only this…the feel of her soft lips against his, the smell of her, fresh and clean, his hands moving awkwardly across her arms, the fabric smooth and light beneath his fingertips, grasping her elbows, pulling her close, so close he could feel the stiff breastplate of her corset and he smiled against her lips, smiled to think of this astonishing woman and what she could accomplish in her armor of whalebone and ribbon.

She held on to the lapels of Mr. Carson's _Charles'_ suitcoat and gave herself up to the feeling of his lips against hers, moving gently, then roughly across her cheeks, her jaw, her mouth. She hadn't meant to press herself so firmly against him, and her face heated at what he might think of her, but she quickly realized that he was as lost as she. She allowed her arms to clasp the back of his neck and she kissed him firmly, leaving him in no doubt of her feelings toward a mutually beneficial partnership.

*CE*

Mr. Mason watched the pair from afar. He felt quite…quite proud, almost, that the two of them were embracing at William's grave. Young William had often spoken of Mrs. Hughes and her kindnesses to him. Mr. Mason had seen it for himself as the young lad lay dying upstairs in the big house. Ever since, Mrs. Hughes had occupied a special place in his heart and he was right pleased to have confirmation of what many in the village had suspected for years. Mrs. Hughes held the keys to the Abbey, but she also held the key to Charles Carson's heart.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Mr. Carson had been very masterful since that afternoon in the courtyard. Within minutes of their return to the house, Mr. Carson found his lordship in the library and informed him of his imminent marriage to Mrs. Hughes. They would not stay on indefinitely, thank you; advertisements would have to be written and approved and candidates interviewed and selected. The Carsons would remain at Downton only as long as it took the banns to be read. They would then move into one of the estate cottages. Of course they would be available for consultation on any matters that might arise, but they were very firmly committed to enjoy their retirement.

From his pantry he telephoned Reverend Travis and asked for an interview at the earliest possible convenience. Half past three this afternoon? Certainly Mr. Carson could see him then. The issue was most pressing, after all.

So it was with surprisingly little effort on her part that Elsie Hughes quickly found herself scant hours away from becoming Elsie Carson, who would soon be installed in a perfectly charming cottage on the estate with every amenity she might have wished for. She hardly knew where to begin. Of course she had visited the cottage, approved its selection and supervised the cleaning efforts of the young maid her Ladyship was kind enough to insist upon. Her Ladyship had also invited the future Mrs. Carson to select from the attics any furnishings the cottage might require. Of course Mrs. Hughes chose wisely and well; she accompanied Mr. Branson and a few hall boys to the cottage so that she might tell them exactly where she wished each piece to go.

With their duties having been significantly lightened by their replacements, Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes found themselves with ample time to walk to the cottage on the eve of their wedding. Mrs. Hughes had made a great show of presenting Mr. Carson with a key to their cottage. Since their engagement, he had become less serious, playful even; on the eve of his wedding his spirits were particularly high.

"Thank you most kindly for my key, Mrs. Hughes. I shouldn't want to be locked out of my new home."

"As if you ever could be."

"As you know, I've never been a husband before. I'm bound to make a few minor errors, particularly in the beginning." He held the key between his thumb and forefinger and regarded it thoughtfully. "It eases my mind to know I shall always be able to enter, though I suppose I should try it out, just to be sure you've given me the right one."

"Go on with you."

He opened the door to their new home with a flourish and bowed as Mrs. Hughes entered the threshold. He crept behind her and whispered into her ear. "Tomorrow I shall carry you over it, my darling."

His proximity and his warm breath sent shivers along her spine. He had been a perfect gentleman throughout their engagement. He had taken to kissing her goodnight, a chaste kiss on the cheek, which left her pleasantly tingly but curiously disappointed. She could not precisely articulate what she wanted; it was enough to know she wanted. She felt he'd been holding himself apart from her, that these chaste kisses were in some way a reward for safeguarding her sterling reputation.

Mr. Carson for his part felt alive. Though he'd waited over twenty years for this woman, he hadn't _always_ known he was waiting for her. A sort of madness had taken hold of him since she accepted his clumsy proposal. He'd offered to ask her again properly, but she'd only laughed and stroked his cheek tenderly. He found he was only able to cope with this unexpected happiness by attacking with gusto each task associated with the wedding. Each day brought some new enjoyment; each shared glance, each slice of toast he buttered for her, each cup of tea she prepared for him took on a heightened significance. He could now openly study her face, though he tried not to do so in the presence of the staff. Leaning into her each evening and gently kissing her cheek was the reward he permitted himself for not kissing her passionately in the servery or the linen closet or the Servant's Hall. But now he was alone with her in the home they would share together. He breathed in her scent and rubbed his fingers along her shoulders. _Tomorrow_, he mouthed. _Tomorrow_.

"You'll want to take your case upstairs, Charles."

He stiffened; his case wasn't all he wanted to take upstairs. He released his grip on her and cleared his throat. "Of course. I'll do so before we leave."

"As you wish." She leaned against his chest and he could not resist the opportunity to wrap his arms around her. She turned smoothly in his arms and tilted her face towards his, but he released her and walked a few paces away.

"Don't you want to kiss me, Charles?"

He turned to face her with a pained expression. "You'll never know how much, but I cannot."

"I don't understand. We're alone here; there's no one to catch us out," she teased lightly.

Charles drew his brows together. "That is precisely why I cannot kiss you, my dear."

His serious gaze caused her to blush furiously. "I hadn't…" She trailed off, uncertain now as to what she had meant. Certainly not _that_. At least not now. There was no denying that she had given it a great deal of thought over the past few weeks. She felt impatient and timid all at once: a very curious and unpleasant sensation.

He sensed her discomfort and crossed the room in two long strides, grasping her by the elbows. "I've thought of little else these past few weeks, my dear." His voice was low and tender and Elsie's heart quickened to hear it. "I am all impatience for tomorrow; when we return to this cottage, it will be as man and wife. Are you impatient for tomorrow, my darling?"

"Yes," she murmured.

He pressed her to him and she buried her face in his chest. She felt weak and trembly, quite unlike her usual self. After a few moments, he gently put her away from him and offered her his arm. "I think it's time I escorted you back to Downton, Mrs. Hughes."

She took his arm gratefully. "I agree, Mr. Carson. It's growing late and I want an early night."

"Can't have you sleeping in tomorrow, can we?"

"Certainly not. Though I am sure to be at the church before you."

"Hardly," he scoffed. "I shall be waiting at the end of the pulpit, the one with the flower in his buttonhole."

"Are you worried I might not recognize you and marry Mr. Bates instead?"

"I'm not taking any chances."

"See that you don't."

They walked along the path to Downton, sharing smiles and teasing glances. Mrs. Hughes held on to his arm with both hands, and Mr. Carson gently smoothed the soft material of her glove and sleeve with his free hand. At last they reached the Servant's entrance, where he let go of her reluctantly.

"I'll see you in the morning."

"In the morning, yes. I'll be the one carrying flowers."

"As if I could mistake anyone else for you." He grasped her hand tenderly. "Sleep well, my dear." He kissed her hand gallantly. "Good evening, Mrs. Hughes."

"Good evening, Mr. Carson."

He turned and walked back along the path to the cottage. He could just make out her faint call. "Sweet dreams!" He turned and grinned at her, waved his hat, then walked on. He was certain of pleasant dreams tonight.

**A/N: So this happened. Expect more soon, though I cannot say when. I think just one more chapter will be it. I've been so intrigued by wedding/wedding night fics lately that I just had to get this out of my head. I am currently struggling to write a drabble about Haxby. It is super hard to contain myself to 300 characters, so I gave myself an extra 100. Still tough, but I am determined. I want to finish the whole shebang so that I can post daily updates. **


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Charles hesitated on the threshold of his bedroom, _their bedroom,_ holding his case. His eyes were on the double bed in the center of the room, a bed he would soon share with his wife. He shrugged his shoulders and sighed. But not tonight. He would put his belongings away, change into his pajamas and sleep on the small settee downstairs. He rather doubted he would sleep much anyway.

*CE*

"Have you got everything?"

"I have."

"Are you packed?"

"Very nearly."

"Are you nervous?"

"Not particularly, Mrs. Patmore. Are you?"

"I am and I don't mind admitting it. It's not every day two of your dearest friends get married and retire." She shook her head sadly. "It won't be the same without you two."

"We won't be far," replied Elsie briskly. "And besides, you may retire sooner than you think. You do have a cottage now."

"Aye, that I do, though I'm not sure it'll be as cozy as yours," Mrs. Patmore said slyly. She leaned in closer. "Come on, then. You can't tell me you're not at least a _bit_ nervous."

"Certainly not! Mr. Carson has made all the arrangements. It's a much smaller affair than I'm used to overseeing, but it's certainly the happiest."

"I'm not talking about the wedding, and you know it." Mrs. Patmore fixed her friend with a beady stare. "It's after the wedding I'm wondering about."

Mrs. Hughes' eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in anger. "Mrs. Patmore! I don't see that it's any of your concern!"

"Oh, get down off your high horse, madam. It's me you're talking to! Or maybe you _have_ been married before?"

"You know I haven't."

"And Mr. Carson?"

"Of course not!"

"Has he kissed you?"

"Mrs. Patmore!"

"I can tell he has by your face. It's as red as those tomatoes I sliced for luncheon earlier. Is he any good?"

"Mr. Carson's been a perfect gentleman."

"Oh."

Elsie couldn't help but laugh at her friend's disappointed tone. "Even tonight?"

"Especially tonight."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing, Mrs. Patmore."

"You were a bit long at the cottage." Beryl smiled eagerly. "Tell me everything!"

"Steady on, Mrs. Patmore! There's nothing to tell."

"But he kissed you?"

"Not at the cottage."

"Oh, outside the cottage, then."

"If you must know, he kissed me goodnight at the Abbey. On the hand," Elsie added primly.

"On the hand? Bloody hell." Beryl covered her mouth and glanced ruefully at the housekeeper. "Oh, excuse me, Mrs. Hughes. I'm that sorry."

Elsie waved away the apology. "I've certainly heard worse. So there you have it, Mrs. Patmore. The whole illicit story." Mrs. Hughes laughed, though it sounded a bit forced to Mrs. Patmore's ear.

"Well, then."

"Well, then."

"But you're still not worried about tomorrow night?"

"Mrs. Patmore, honestly. I don't quite know what you're fishing for-" She held up a hand to forestall her friend's retort. "And even if I did, you must know I couldn't say anything more than I have."

"I doubt that, but I'll accept it for now." She rose and rolled her head on her neck. "Coming?"

"Yes, I think I ought, Mrs. Patmore. We've a busy day tomorrow."

"Yes, _we_ do."

The two women quietly cleared the remains of their impromptu tea.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes. And thank you. You've been a true friend."

Unexpected tears sprang sharply to Elsie's eyes. "As have you, Mrs. Patmore. Good night."

They embraced clumsily, then silently made their way up the back stairs to their attic rooms.

*CE*

Charles shifted about irritably in a vain attempt to get comfortable. He was too large for the blasted thing, and when he pulled the afghan to his chin, his feet were bared. He sighed. He was determined to spend the night downstairs. He had a stubborn _sentimental_ desire to wait until his wife could join him in their marital bed.

He shifted again. Thinking of her in their bed would not encourage a good night's sleep, and he certainly needed one, if tomorrow night went as well as he hoped.

It had been so difficult to refrain from kissing her these past few weeks, kissing her as he had done at the cemetery: recklessly, passionately. Holding her so closely, feeling her relax into him… He shoved the blanket off and sat up wearily.

It had been many years, decades, since he'd been intimate with a woman. The memories still shamed and embarrassed him, especially since he'd experienced Elsie's fresh, innocent kisses. He'd sensed her uncertainty that day, her inexperience and it both thrilled and pained him. He felt a dark, threatening anger toward any man who had ever even looked at Elsie, but, what was worse, her inexperience reminded him of his own innocence, and how he had been seduced and corrupted by the free-spirited world Griggs had introduced him to.

_You went into it with both eyes open, mate. _He couldn't deny that.

He'd had a few innocent romances as a lad, but he was wholly unprepared for a life on the halls. He still remembered that awkward, bumbling young man who never quite knew where to put his eyes amidst the chaos and frenzy of backstage.

Charles was perhaps the handsomer of the two, but Griggs was a charmer who never lacked for companionship. Charles was mesmerized by the relaxed and easy camaraderie the performers enjoyed. Charlie had promised him a party, and he certainly had delivered.

Though Charles never became as dissolute as his partner, he broke what he had previously considered an inviolable set of moral precepts. His first few fumbling attempts with women were quick and flustered, but he listened and learned and improved. Or so he'd been told. To think he'd been considered chaste in that environment! He scrubbed his face and sighed again. He could never have dreamed of securing the affections of a woman like Elsie Hughes. Not at twenty, not at fourscore and twenty for that matter. He could scarcely believe his good fortune now. All he could do now was strive to be the husband _and lover_ that Elsie Hughes deserved.

*CE*

Elsie hadn't wanted to confide her nerves to anyone, least of all Mrs. Patmore, a good soul, but a most unlikely confidante for private matters between a husband and wife.

She fretted as she prepared for bed. Certainly she understood the act itself; she'd been raised on a farm, for heaven's sake. She knew enough of the ways of men to explain certain particulars to her girls and, in almost every instance, to keep them safe. Only now she found those talks woefully inadequate. There had been times when she'd actually considered speaking with Anna, but she couldn't bring herself to say the words. She shuddered; it would have been horribly awkward for them both.

She pulled a box from the bottom of her wardrobe and opened it carefully. She unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a modest nightgown and matching dressing gown. She'd gone all the way to Ripon to purchase it on her last half day. Her summer nightgown was serviceable , albeit plain, so she'd indulged in the purchase of a new, and she hoped more flattering, nightgown. She flushed to think what Charles might say. Would he be pleased? She thought so, but of course she had no way of knowing. Occasionally, she'd caught him looking at her with dark, hungry eyes, but he always quickly composed himself and smiled that loving smile that caused her heart to catch painfully. She realized she was looking at a man in love, and she could hardly imagine herself as the object of his affection.

She thought she understood why he'd been so distant; she found herself too shy to press what was clearly unwanted affection, so she contented herself with receiving a very proper, very chaste goodnight kiss each evening. Mrs. Patmore had scoffed, but that was one of the very reasons she loved him so dearly, one of the reasons she _could_ love him. She often became frustrated with his dogged persistence toward _the way things were done_, but she was very grateful to him for never putting her in the position of having to say that one little word. She wasn't entirely certain that she could. She smiled down at her nightgown, thinking that after tonight, she wouldn't have to.

**A/N: Not only is my drabble fic giving me fits, but this latest update took off in an unintended direction. I hadn't really intended to dwell too much on Charles' backstory, but I definitely dabbled here. As of now, I intend for the next chapter to be the wedding night, so be forewarned of a ratings change in case I forget to change it when I post. Meanwhile, I'm still crying over some of the truly wonderful fics going on right now. I need an M-rated wedding night update to cheer me up. **


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

They made their way back to the cottage, holding hands, finally, blessedly alone. He might have thought it slightly improper to grasp his wife's hand rather than thread her arm through his, but only slightly, and what did it matter now anyway? She was his wife now, and any manner in which he chose to show his affection had been sanctioned by God and the woman beside him.

He studied her face covertly; he was by no means an expert at reading his wife _his wife_, but he rather thought she was as anxious to be alone as he.

The wedding ceremony had been brief in comparison to the celebration that awaited them back at the Abbey. And while they'd both been touched, truly touched, by the genuine good wishes bestowed on them again and again from both their upstairs family and the down, they were both relieved when the final, formal goodbyes had been tended. Of course they promised to return and certainly they extended invitations for any who chose to visit, though certainly not today, and likely not tomorrow either.

She was wearing that new hat he found so charming; in fact, she'd been wed in the very same outfit she'd been wearing when he proposed to her _kissed her._ Tears had sprung to his eyes as she walked down the aisle, and he blinked them away as best he could. As she drew closer, he could see that she'd arranged her hair differently; she'd even put a bit of color on her lips, not that he thought she'd needed any adornment. She was quite simply the most captivating woman he'd ever known.

Soon their cottage was in view. As they drew near the door, he stopped her, pulled the key out of his pocket and held it out to her.

"I think you should do the honors, my dear."

Though she looked at him curiously, she accepted the key and turned to put it in the lock. Charles crept close behind her and put behind him the hamper full of food that Mrs. Patmore had insisted on packing for them. The jars of jam _his favorite_ rattled noisily against one another and Elsie turned to look at him.

"Open the door, Elsie."

She turned the knob and he gathered her quickly, clumsily into his arms.

"What on earth? Charles Carson, put me down!"

"Not until we cross the threshold."

"But anyone could see?"

"Does it matter?"

"Do you want the whole village gossiping about us?"

"I find I don't care nearly as much as I did." He stepped across the threshold with his wife, his bride, quite pleased with himself. He had wondered whether he would be able to lift her, not because he thought her heavy, no, but he was certainly grateful for years of lifting crates of wine and carrying them down cellar. Her head tucked neatly beneath his chin and even in spite of her coat and dress, she felt soft and warm in his arms.

"Put me down, Charles," murmured Elsie.

"Must I?"

"I think you must, for now."

He set her down gently. He noticed a faint flush of color along her cheeks, but he said nothing, merely retrieved the hamper and closed the door behind him.

*CE*

He listened to the sounds of her unpacking the hamper in the kitchen. She'd asked him to start a fire; the evenings were a bit cool, and he hadn't wanted to leave the fire burning this morning. She told him she would put the kettle on for them. He sighed. He didn't want a cup of tea; he wanted her. _Blast it, man. Control yourself! You're not some eager young buck!_ But gods he felt like one. He'd kissed her at the ceremony's end, very lightly, very chastely. He wouldn't embarrass her for the world. But now they were alone, and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her as he had done all those weeks ago, to hold her in his arms, to cross that final barrier with her. But he didn't want to frighten her, and he sensed her apprehension.

She bustled out of the kitchen with the tea and an assortment of biscuits on a tray which she set on the table near the settee.

"Come and have some tea, Charles."

"Alright," and he groaned as he stood, kneeling as he had been in front of the fireplace. "Oh, dear."

"Are you alright?"

"Perfectly well, my dear. Only my knees aren't accustomed to kneeling; they'll get used to it."

"Will you miss it?"

"Miss what?"

"Delegating tasks like lighting fires."

He smiled as he walked toward the settee. "I don't think I shall. Not now."

She smiled softly and ducked her chin. "Sit down, then. I'll fix your tea for you."

He sat obligingly and waited for her to turn to him once more. As she handed him the cup, he noticed her hands were trembling. He took the cup gently from her. He must proceed carefully. "Won't you sit down, Elsie?"

"I will, as soon as I've fixed my own tea."

_Oh, no. She's gone all stiff and severe_, he thought despondently. _This will never do._

After what seemed an age, she finally sat near him on the settee.

"Thank you for the tea, my dear."

"You're quite welcome."

They sipped their tea in silence, each wondering how to break this awkward stalemate they found themselves in, when Charles had a sudden inspiration. He put his tea down and rose abruptly from the settee.

"Wherever are you going, Charles?"

"I'll only be a moment." Lady Mary, knowing Carson's fondness for music, had gifted them with a gramophone and a few recordings. He had placed it carefully in a cupboard, hoping to surprise Elsie with it. He brought it out into the parlor and began to set it up.

"What's all this?"

"It's a gramophone. From Lady Mary. I thought we might listen to some music."

She sniffed. Though she was fonder of the girl, having seen evidence of her loyalty to Anna, that did not mean she was in the mood to be reminded of her on her wedding night. Her wedding night! The thought made her flush to the roots of her hair. What must Mr. Carson _Charles_ think of her? She had rebuffed every attempt of his to make her more comfortable and now he had resorted to music to soothe her. She resolved to put her nerves by as best she could and enjoy whatever activity he had in mind to her fullest.

She watched remove the cylinder from its sleeve and carefully place it on the gramophone. Then he gently wound the crank so that the music would play. She wondered what he had chosen. He placed the needle on the cylinder, then turned to her with a look so shy and hopeful that her heart lurched uncomfortably in her chest. She'd understood his regard for her, perhaps even passion, but today she had seen his love for her, unguarded and so very fragile, in the warmth of his eyes and his tentative, gentle touch. He reached a hand to her as the first strains of the music wafted through the horn.

"Shall we dance?"

She felt slow and stupid and graceless as she put her tea cup on the table and reached out for his hand. They had never danced before. He had never held her so closely in all the years they'd known each other. Even in the cemetery the day he'd proposed he'd been careful not to press himself too closely against her. He pulled her to her feet and effortlessly gathered her into his arms. She fancied herself a credible dancing partner; his annual dancing at the Servant's Ball was always so stilted and formal. She could never have guessed how fluidly he could move, how lightly and wonderfully well he guided her through their small parlor, how full of love she could feel for this man.

Through the years, he had imagined various scenarios in which he might persuade Mrs. Hughes to dance with him at the Servant's Ball, knowing how improper and inappropriate such an action would be. Nevertheless, he had often wondered what she might feel like in his arms, what it might be like to guide her confidently around the room in a swirling mass of music and light and color. But here, holding her now, dancing in their small parlor, he realized with pained delight at how very inadequate his fantasies had been. She was so light and graceful, she moved with him at the slightest provocation. It was as though she could read his thoughts before he had them. Well, and hadn't she been performing a sort of dance with him all these years? He wanted to crush her to him, to bury his face in her neck, explore every part of her that had heretofore been hidden from him, but he couldn't. Not now, not yet.

The music stopped abruptly. Damn. He hadn't turned the crank nearly enough. He made to release her, but she clutched his suit coat and stared hard at him for a moment before she kissed him.

*CE*

Later, he was never quite sure how they made it up the stairs unscathed. He hadn't wanted to release her, and she hadn't wanted to be released, so they clasped one another tightly, kissing and groping and holding up the stairs and along the corridor to the bedroom. She pulled away from him as she saw the bed.

"You didn't sleep here last night."

"I couldn't. Not yet. Not without you."

"You daft, precious man," she whispered and kissed him deeply.

*CE*

She'd had plans, of course. She'd bought that nightgown, for heaven's sake. But suddenly, a nightgown seemed unnecessary. She hadn't known that love and desire could be such a heady mix. She had cared for Joe, but she hadn't really loved him. Hadn't expected to, wouldn't have, even had they married. But this man, this man had stolen into her heart before she knew what was happening and resided their ever since. She had always loved him, but she hadn't always desired him. She felt it know though, felt it coursing through her veins, pumping through her heart. She loved him and she wanted him, come what may. He pulled away from her, a question in his eyes. She answered with a nod, and he began to unbutton her blouse.

*CE*

The room was quiet, still. Even the birds had stopped twittering. He wanted to take his time, to burn every moment in his memory, but his fingers were racing ahead of him. Her chest was rising and falling with short, shallow breaths, and he risked a look at her face. Her eyes were closed and she was worrying her lower lip in that way of hers. He groaned aloud and her eyes flew open. He grabbed her shoulders and kissed her, hard at first, then he opened his mouth against hers, teased her lips open with his tongue and she gasped at the feeling of his tongue in her mouth. She stumbled a bit and he steadied her, then he lifted her in his arms again and carried her to their bed.

*CE*

In that first mad, frantic shuffle, he worked his suitcoat and tie off and her blouse and skirt. He rubbed his hands along the sure, stiff outline of her corset, kissed her neck and shoulders, the tops of her breasts, delighted by the moans and sighs he was eliciting. He wanted nothing more than to thrust himself inside her, but he disciplined himself to move slowly, carefully. He rose above her to unclasp the straps of her stockings, to pull at the ties of her corset, then unhooked each delicate eye, finally exposing her shift worn smooth and thin. He buried his face between the valley of her breasts and felt her hands tangle in his hair. He looked up at her and saw all the love and fear and desire he himself felt. He pulled himself up so that he could cradle her face in his hands, then he kissed her slowly: her forehead, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth. He thought he might burst when he felt her hands against his trousers, loosening the buttons.

"Are you ready," he whispered hoarsely.

"Yes, mo chridhe, yes."

"Mo kree? What does that mean?"

She turned her face away from him as she mumbled. "It means my heart in the Gaelic."

He turned her face toward him gently and began to kiss her in earnest. "Mo kree. Mo kree. My heart. I love you. Do you know? Have you always known? I love you. I love you."

"I love you Charles. I do, my man. I love you."

He worked her shift up and over her body, while simultaneously shrugging out of his trousers and underpants. She helped him out of his vest, then he tugged gently at her knickers. She gasped as he touched her intimately, with such tenderness that she felt tears spring to her eyes.

He rose over her his powerful back and arms providing a shelter of sorts and he kissed her softly, once, twice, before guiding himself inside her very slowly and gently.

She knew to expect pain and her breath caught as she felt him push his way inside her.

"Are you alright?"

She nodded, and stroked his cheek. "I'm fine," she whispered. "Just…just go slowly, mo chridh."

He wanted to do anything but go slowly, but he took a deep breath and stilled himself inside her, pushing himself in slowly with one hand and caressing her with the other. He felt himself nearly there, and when she pushed herself up to meet him, he sank inside her warmth and let out a tremendous groan.

"Have I hurt you?"

He laughed in spite of himself. "No, my love, no. You haven't hurt me at all. How are you?"

She smiled in spite of herself and crushed herself against him. "I'm fine. I'm wonderful. I can't seem to get close enough to you."

Charles scooted them further down the bed, then guided her legs up and over his hips. He began to move, slowly at first, long slow strokes as he tangled his hands in her hair, buried his face in her neck. He wanted to hold on, wanted to please her as she pleased him, but he couldn't. Her sighs ruffled his hair and tickled his ear. He drew back to look at her face and it was full of love and wonder. When she smiled at him and squeezed her legs around him, he lost control completely and drove into her forcefully before giving a great bloody shout and expending himself inside her.

His face was wet with tears as he lay across her. She gathered him in her arms, stroking his back and crooning a lovely, lilting tune whose words he couldn't understand.

A Mhàiri bhàn òg 's tu 'n òigh th' air m'aire

Rim bheò bhith far am bithinn fhèin,

On fhuair mi ort còir cho mòr 's bu mhath leam

Le pòsadh ceangailt' on chlèir,

Le cùmhnanta teann 's le banntaibh daingeann

'S le snaidhm a dh'fhanas 's nach trèig:

'Se t'fhaotainn air làimh le gràdh gach caraid

Rinn slàinte mhaireann am chrè.

*A/N: Here is the English translation of the Gaelic song written by Duncan Ban Macintyre, who once lived and worked as game warden in Argyll!

Lovely Young Mary, you are the girl

I'll have by me while I still breathe

You're bound to me now, as fast as I wanted

By marriage, sealed and priested,

Promises pledged, the knot tied fast.

To marry in sight of the love of friends

Has made me man, hale and whole.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

**A/N: M-rated chapter ahead. For deeedeee.**

His tears were flowing in earnest now; he buried his face between her breasts and held her tightly. Her heart clenched in fear; her first instinct to cradle him to her, to sing to him, had clearly been wrong.

"Charles, what's wrong? What have I done?"

He shook his head against her and gripped her more tightly.

"Charles, please, tell me what's upset you so? Have I…have I done something wrong?" Her voice cracked as she spoke, and she hated herself for it.

Charles lifted his head to look her in the eyes; he took a deep, shuddering breath. "You've done nothing wrong, Elsie. Nothing at all. You were perfect. You _are_ perfect." He looked away. "It's me."

Now she was well and truly afraid. "What's the matter, Charles. Please tell me. You're not ill, are you? It's not…it's not your heart?"

"No, of course not." He sighed. How could he explain? How could he even talk of those days with her, the sights, the sounds, the women. He risked another look; fear and concern were written all over her face. How could he not? He stroked her cheek gently, then shifted himself so that he could sit beside her. "I'm sorry, my love." He pressed a kiss to her temple. "I didn't even turn down the bed!" He reached down and grabbed the coverlet and pulled it over them. Somehow, this wasn't a conversation he could have unclothed. He took a moment to settle her more firmly against him, tucking the coverlet around her more securely. _Quit stalling, man. _"I'm not entirely sure where to begin."

"What exactly is it that you want to tell me?"

"Elsie, do you understand why I couldn't allow myself to kiss you last night?"

"I think I do now."

It was so much harder to have this conversation without looking into her eyes, but he was such a coward. He couldn't bear to see disappointment or even _God forbid_ disgust in them. "I…I've loved you for a long time. Many years now, though I didn't know it then. Do you understand?"

"I think so," she replied slowly. "It was the same for me, though I think I realized it much sooner than you did."

He laughed sharply. "That doesn't surprise me." He tightened his grip around her, as if to reassure himself of her presence. "I was able to put those feelings by until that day at the seaside, when you took my hand." He could feel her smile against his shoulder. "It was a lovely day," he said warmly.

"I couldn't quite believe you took my hand."

"I couldn't quite believe you offered it to me." He took her hand and pressed a gentle kiss to it. "It had been such a long time since I… since I'd had contact with a woman. _Contact_? "A beautiful woman," he added hastily.

"Flatterer."

"Not in the least. But after the memorial service-"

"The day you proposed."

"Yes, the day you accepted my proposal, that day, when I kissed you. It wasn't right, it wasn't proper, and I wasn't sure I could stop myself."

"You're not upset about that, are you? I had as much to do with it as you did!"

"But that's just it, Elsie. You didn't."

"I don't understand."

Charles shifted about uncomfortably. "Elsie, when I held you, when I kissed you, I knew you were a respectable woman."

Elsie sat up so that she could look him in the eyes. "What do you mean, Charles? What is it you're trying to tell me?"

Charles cleared his throat. "You'll recall that when I was younger, a young man, I was a member, for a time, in a theatre troupe."

Elsie reached out to him. "Oh, Charles. Is that what's upset you? You've told me all about that."

"Not all." He sat up and took her hand in his. "Elsie, I was not… respectable. I strayed from what I had been taught, from what I believed. Very far." He tightened his grip on her hand. "Once I returned to service, I promised myself I would be a better man, that I would embody those ideals that were taught me, that I would truly earn the respect of those around me. You could understand and forgive, but I never could. When I think of what you did for Ethel… well, I've been a bombastic old fool, and what's worse, a hypocrite. I need to know you can forgive me."

"I'm not sure why you think you need my forgiveness, Charles. Whatever happened in the past is done now, and whatever it was, it made you into the man you are today, the man I came to love." She cupped his cheek with her hand. "Charles, look at me. You are a man of honor and integrity, and, in spite of your attempts to hide it, a very kind and generous one as well. I love you." She kissed him softly on the mouth. "I love you."

"But can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you for what?"

"For succumbing to temptation!"

"You wouldn't be the first man to do it. Nor the first woman, for that matter."

"How can you accept this so calmly?"

"And what would you have me do? Charles, how many years ago was all this?"

"Decades."

"And you want me to be angry with you over things that happened before I even knew you?"

"I don't think you understand!"

"I think I do! You want me to forgive you for "succumbing to temptation" with a woman outside of marriage, is that it?"

"Something like that," he mumbled.

"And I'm telling you that it's unnecessary and not at all something I want to discuss on my wedding night!"

He hid his face in his hands. "Oh, gods, Elsie. I've made a right mess of everything, haven't I?"

"You haven't, mo chridhe. At least not yet."

"I just… I want to be worthy of you."

"And you _are_, that's what I keep telling you. We none of us are perfect, Charles. But we've been given a gift, our life together is a gift, and I for one intend to enjoy it!"

"Truly?"

His voice, usually so resonant, now soft and broken, tugged at her heartstrings. "Yes, truly. I love you, Charles. I couldn't love any other."

"Not even your Mr. Burns?" His tone was lighter, but Elsie could hear the edge in his voice.

"Not even Mr. Burns. Not after I met you."

"Elsie, I love you, and I've wanted you more than I can bear."

"There's nothing to separate us now," she whispered and reached out for him.

*CE*

_With my body, I thee worship_.

He thought of those words the minister had said over them, words he believed in again, wholeheartedly, words that united them for all eternity.

He rolled his wife onto her back and rubbed his thumb across her cheek and lips. She smiled hesitantly, worrying that bottom lip in her captivating way. He kissed her softly, using his own lips to pull her bottom lip from between her teeth. He drew it in his own mouth, sucked it lightly, then ran his tongue along the length of it. She shivered and he whispered in her ear.

"Did you like that Elsie?"

She turned her face from his and nodded. Her shyness thrilled him. He kissed along her earlobe, her jaw, her neck and finally her breasts. He was shamed by his haste earlier and wanted desperately to make it up to her. He wanted to please her, knew that he could, if only he were able to take his time. He kissed her breasts tenderly, then teased along the edge of her nipple with his tongue. She gasped and tightened her grip on his shoulders. He grinned and redoubled his efforts, his hands moving across her breasts and belly, between her legs, searching for that dark secret place that he knew would bring her pleasure. Once he found it, her hips bucked against his hand and her fingers tangled roughly in his hair.

"Charles, I…I-"

He looked up at her face, so dear to him, now with a look that is wholly new and only for him, a look of such pleasure and love that he thinks his heart will burst.

"Now?" he whispers.

"Yes, now, mo chridhe, now."

He guides himself inside her with one long thrust and utters an uncharacteristic oath at the sensation. "Oh my darling girl, my love, oh gods, I love you." He kisses her over and over again, the feel of her eager, uncertain tongue in his mouth spurring him harder and faster.

She lifts her legs up and crosses them over his back, his buttocks, and he is lost completely. "Elsie, I can't, I'm going to-"

"Yes, yes, I know, I-."

He squeezes his eyes shut and roars into her neck as he feels her spasm against him, her cries sharp and hot against his ear.

He places fumbling kisses along the hollow of her collarbone, the smooth curve of her shoulder. He can feel her heart beating wildly against his chest. He strokes her soothingly and she mirrors his actions, running her hands across his back, tentatively touching his hips, his backbone.

"I love you, Charles, all of you. Everything you were, and everything you are."

He hasn't the words to tell her what those words mean to him; all he can do is put all his love for her in a desperate, passionate kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Marriage was a revelation. He thought he knew women. He thought he knew _her_. He flattered himself that he knew Mrs. Hughes pretty well, better perhaps than anyone, save Mrs. Patmore, and in his secret heart of hearts, he always felt that he understood Mrs. Hughes in a way that the fiery cook never could. He could comprehend now, though, precisely how foolish and arrogant that thinking had been.

A dozen little intimacies to observe and cherish, and all those before breakfast! He often woke before she did, and he took great pleasure in watching her sleep, finding her face as active and endearing in repose as it was in wakefulness. There seemed to be no end to the fascinating secrets he beheld and he felt glad and very fortunate to be the man to witness them.

Their life together had fallen into a very satisfying routine. She knew something of cooking, though admittedly less than a typical woman of her age, so she applied herself with diligence to Mrs. Beeton's guide in order to provide them with some type of sustenance. Her earliest endeavors were not terribly successful, but her ability to laugh at herself coupled with her husband's heroically ironclad stomach saw them through the worst of it. After six months, she had developed a repertoire of several faultless meals; they certainly wouldn't starve.

She applied that same diligence to their marital bed. Her obvious relish of their intimacy and her ability not to take herself to seriously made her a very apt pupil. Lately, she had taken to initiating certain activities; he'd thought the mere act of making love to her could not be surpassed, but he'd had no idea the distinct pleasure he could derive from knowing his attentions were wanted.

Another unexpected pleasure was reading in bed together. Together they had a small but not insubstantial library, having given one another various books over the years, and of course his Lordship had generously extended them the courtesy of visiting his library any time they chose, and while they did so infrequently, it was a comfort to be able to change books from time to time. Charles would try to surreptitiously study her face as she read, the soft glow of the light emphasizing her cheekbones and plump lips, but she always caught him at it, which generally disrupted their reading time. He'd given up trying to maintain his previous rate of reading, as he discovered he had more pleasant demands on his time.

*CE*

Moonlight streamed in through a gap in the curtain, making a ghostly pattern on the counterpane. He'd not pulled the curtains tightly together, but he'd been in too great a hurry to make love to his wife. He smiled as he stroked her back and listened to the steady rhythm of her breaths.

They'd been up to the Abbey earlier, taking tea with Mrs. Patmore and Daisy. They'd had a quick word with the Bateses, as well as Mr. Molesley and Miss Baxter. Of course Mr. Barrow was far too busy to attend to the likes of them, but he managed a somewhat pleasant greeting as he went about his tasks. Charles shook his head; he'd never considered Mr. Barrow butler material, but he had to admit the man was performing better than expected. Though they'd visited the Abbey on occasion during the last six months, something about today's visit made him pensive. He'd brooded most of the way home.

"Don't tell me you miss it?" asked Elsie, with a reassuring squeeze of his arm.

He looked at her sharply; she was teasing, of course, but there was an undercurrent of…pity? Fear? He couldn't say. "No, I don't miss it," he replied emphatically.

"It would be understandable if you did," returned Elsie mildly. "After all, we spent a lifetime there."

"Yes," he muttered, "a lifetime."

"It sounds awful when you say it like that!"

"Like what?"

"Like it was all a very grave mistake."

"Perhaps it was."

Elsie stopped abruptly along the path that led to their cottage. "You can't mean that."

He turned to face her and her anger melted the moment she saw his face. "I don't. Not like that. It's only…I found myself watching Molesley and Miss Baxter today. He seems quite keen on her."

Elsie waved her hand impatiently. "I know that." She started walking toward the cottage, and Charles fell in beside her.

"You do? How?"

"I have eyes, Charles, and they work perfectly well. He's been showing an interest in Miss Baxter very nearly since she arrived."

"I never noticed that."

Elsie laughed. "Well, you wouldn't."

"What do you mean?" Charles was indignant.

"I mean that the signs wouldn't be obvious to you."

"Is that your way of saying I'm an unromantic simpleton?"

She laughed again, a delicate peal that never ceased to delight and amaze him, excepting those times when he was the cause of that laughter. "Certainly not. I only meant that you were very focused on your work, Charles. You didn't concern yourself with the private lives of your subordinates. You simply assumed they didn't have any."

"That's precisely what I mean."

"What? I don't follow."

"Looking at those two today, well…" He stopped, reaching out to grasp her shoulders and turn her toward him. "They put me in mind of us, and it got me thinking." He sighed. "I've loved you for a very long time, Mrs. Carson, but I was too afraid to admit it. What if… what if?"

"What if a bomb goes off?" She gently teased him. "What if we're hit by a falling star?" She reached and stroked his cheek. "We have _now_, Mr. Carson, and for that I'm quite grateful."

"Are you? Truly? Do you never wish-"

"Not anymore," she interrupted firmly. "Not when my dearest wish has come true."

Tears sprang to his eyes and he gripped her more firmly. "I wish I could kiss you."

"We're not far from home, Mr. Carson," she said, looking up at him through her lashes. Gods above, this woman. He felt himself rise to her as he hastily turned them toward home.

As soon as he ushered her through the door, he gathered her in his arms and kissed her deeply.

"I love you, Mrs. Carson."

"And I love you."

He kissed her again, then took her hands and pulled her toward the stairs.

"But Charles, my hat and coat!" she protested.

"I'll put them away later. Come with me."

"Alright."

He felt like taking the stairs two at a time. He couldn't say why he felt such urgency for her, only that he did. He had to show her what she meant to him in a language he couldn't muddle.

He shut the door behind them and began removing the pins from her hat.

"Charles, the window."

"What?"

"Close the curtains."

"In the daytime?" he teased.

She fixed him with that imperious look that threatened to bring him to his knees. He closed the curtains with a snap of his wrist, then gathered her closely to him.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you."

A sort of sacred hush fell across the room as Charles continued to delicately remove each layer of his wife's clothing. As soon as there was nothing left between them, he turned the counterpane back and gently laid his wife in the bed, taking a moment to admire her form. He recalled how embarrassed she'd been when he first looked openly at her body. She was lovelier than he could ever have imagined.

"Come to bed, Mr. Carson," she said, and reached up for him.

*CE*

"We've slept through dinner, I'm sure, Mr. Carson."

He smiled and stroked her back. "Perhaps, but overall I'd say it was worth it. Don't you agree?"

She lifted her head and grinned at him. "I do. I hadn't planned much of a meal tonight anyway."

He laughed and squeezed her. "Have we some bread and cheese? That would do for me."

"Aye, we might at that, and I recall someone was going to hand my coat and put away my hat."

"At your service, m'lady." He shifted out of her embrace and got out of bed. He'd taken to hanging his dressing gown on the bedpost. Handy, that.

"You know, Charles? I don't think I could have appreciated you before now."

He turned to look at her. At times he could hardly believe they were married, but it was easier when he saw her lying beneath their sheets, hair mussed and skin flushed and rosy from… He was certain he couldn't have appreciated her; he knew, to his shame, that he hadn't, not completely at least, until very recently.

"What's that look for?"

Charles shook his head. "Only thinking, my dear, of the various ways I might show you my appreciation. Perhaps that bread and cheese could wait?"

"Perhaps it could," and she smiled as she lifted the sheet.

The End

**A/N: It has been nearly impossible for me to settle down after the delights of the Christmas special. We've waited a long time for this, Chelsie shippers, but it was so very worth it. Chelsie is real! (And we knew it all along!)**


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